Harvesting Light This is where the day pauses, drenched in a single hue. No questions, only sunlit offerings that brighten the silence without asking for return. The world can be softened, even in stone corners, if we find a way to carry what glows. Every golden moment waits. Gather them in your hands, let them spill over thresholds, a vow to keep the sun wherever it hides.
I spoke it to the empty room: “I wanna velcro horsedog”— dreams of danes in my head, when she came instead, chocolate-crowned and solid-boned, her lab legs built like timber, not an ounce of spare on her frame but somehow still substantial, like good furniture. She was not always this way— this shadow stitched to my footsteps, these eyes liquid with devotion. There was a time when the garden held more wonder than my presence, when squirrels commanded her full attention, when the mail truck’s rumble pulled her to the window like moth to flame. Tell me, what transforms a wild heart into belonging? What invisible thread is pulled in secret chambers of a dog’s knowing? Now she tub-thumps behind me bedroom to kitchen, bathroom to office, her nails clicking a morse code against hardwood floors. At night, she sleeps warm against me, until that gentle word—”okay”— sends her padding away. Perhaps this is how love works— not in grand gestures or reasons why, but in the quiet choosing, day after day, to stay. Tell me, isn’t this how the world’s great mysteries reveal themselves? In chocolate fur and timber bones, keeping seventime with our days like a second heartbeat.
